Drachenara

by T. G. Neal

  Rolyat sat, leaning forward on his knees, heavy plate armor still taking its toll on his body, even after training to wear it for as long as he had. The silence of the courtyard was pleasant, with only the distant roar of what took place inside nearby buildings as background noise. As he sat and pondered, he stared up at the sky and closed his eyes. “Maker, I am but a human, and I have my doubts about everything. Right now, I am having more and more doubts, and I’m fearful of what that means for me. Please give me strength.” He looked back down and was suddenly reassured of himself. He walked up to the Paladins guarding the door and looked at them with a matter-of-fact expression stretched across his face. “I invoke the rite of passage by divinity.”

  The Paladins looked at one another.

  “The edict of the church says that a brother of the Exemplars may at any time enter the Cathedral at any time, for any reason. I am a Paladin, such as you, am I not?” Asked Rolyat. And he was certain that he was still a Paladin, perhaps more now than ever.

  For a moment they said nothing, then they stepped aside, and allowed Rolyat to pass inside.

  Upon entering the building, Rolyat felt as if something was wrong. He could feel the change in the energy of the room, in the ebb and flow of the Nitorae. He had been here before, of course, on patrol duty, and in his studies as a Paladin. He made his way through the structure until he found a Monk in the inner-garden watering the moon lilies that grew. “Monk. I’m looking for a fellow of your order that came through here earlier today. His name is Mikael Uruk.”

  The Monk nodded but never broke a smile. He sat the watering can down and walked away back across the garden. The two walked down long hallway after long hallway before finally coming to rest in the Sanctity Chamber. The room was a large open room with a fountain in the center, with no art or rug, or window to the outside. The acoustics of the room was perfect, and each jingle or scrape of his armor sounded like it had been silverware banged against a steel serving dish. Rolyat spotted Mikael, by his bald head, knelt in front of the fountain. He turned and nodded a thank you to the Monk, who then turned and left.

  Rolyat walked up behind Mikael and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mikael.” He said quietly.

  Mikael didn’t budge at first. After just a few moments, he stood and turned around to face Rolyat. On his head, he bore the mark of the Minster, directly between his eyes and freshly tattooed. “What is that?” He asked.

  A Priest stepped into the room behind Rolyat and bowed his head. “Hello, Paladin.”

  Rolyat turned to look at the Priest. “What happened to him?”

  “He’s accepted a vow of silence from the Protopriest, and an elevated position in the Minster as a scholar of the Monks. You should be proud of him. How do you know him?” The Priest asked, walking around behind Rolyat in his long, flowing, white and gold robe.

  “I am his friend.” He considered Mikael’s eyes and frowned. He could see that this wasn’t the very same Mikael that he had left before. The closer he looked, there in the dim light of the candles in the room, he could see the outline of a hand on his head, almost sunburned against his flesh.

  “Did you come with him today?” The Priest asked.

  “Hm? No. I came from the Paladaeis, I only recently had a meeting with the Grandmaster.” Rolyat said, slowly backing toward the door. He looked to Mikael and frowned again, bowing his head. “Good luck in your exploits, brother. May they find you well.” He forced himself to accept Mikael’s decision, though he was still skeptical of it.

  Mikael barely so much as bowed his head as Rolyat turned to leave.

  The Priest turned to follow Rolyat. “Why do you leave, Paladin?” Asked the Priest, genuinely, but behind his voice seemed something malicious.

  “Because I am free to, am I not?” Rolyat replied, sternly.

  “You are.”

  “Good.” And with that, Rolyat opened the door to the Cathedral and stepped out, leaving the Cathedral behind him, bound for the Tavern he knew that the others had gone to.

  Keneya had removed his light armor and was down now to only a pair of leggings and a linen shirt. He had kicked his boots to the side, and yet he still held his karambit in his hand, twirling it like a toy. Throughout the day, his long black hair had fallen, and since cleaning himself up a bit at the tavern, he had pulled it back neatly, showing his ears proudly.

  Vaelen had removed his armor as well, laying it neatly on the floor beside his bed, across from Keneya’s and beside Aurelia’s. He, too, had kicked off his boots, and placed them on the floor neatly, ready to jump into at a moment’s notice. His greatsword glistened against the burning oil lamp on the nightstand, and he was still cleaning off with the bowl of warm drawn water he had been given.

  Aurelia had also removed gear, but she’d left the room to clean and freshen up. When she returned, she looked almost like a new person, the way Vaelen remembered her from Drachenara, but with much shorter hair. She’d neatly organized the armor and her weapons together, beside her bed, directly beside Vaelen’s things. She saw the way he smiled at her when she walked into the room, and she smiled back. She could feel the nervousness in her belly, a flitting feeling like having too much pure air from a mountaintop. Noticing that he, too, was clean, brought back memories of Drachenara, before everything had been torn asunder. He looked different, though, now. His hair was shorter, of course, to help hide his identity. But it was more than that. He looked surer of himself, and more worried at the same time. He had grown a thin beard, untrimmed for days on the roads, now, and his arms had grown thicker – from carrying the large sword, she assumed. How badly she suddenly wanted to be held by him and have him as her own. Then the door to their shared chamber opened.

  In walked Rolyat, who closed the door behind him, lowering his shield and his hammer as he walked. He stripped the belt from his armor, and dropped the platemail down as he walked, his shoulder-length black hair matted to his head, and in disarray. “He has returned to his vow.” Was all he said, as he unlaced his boots.

  Keneya sat up straight and leaned forward on his elbows. “Come again?”

  Rolyat nodded, sliding his boots off and to the side, checking the water in the bowl next to what he assumed was his bed. Thankfully it was still warm, he expected it to be cold, either would have been okay. “He has accepted a vow of silence from the Protopriest and taken a role as scholar to the Monks.”

  “How can you teach and be silent?” Mused Keneya, who twirled the dagger.

  “I’m serious.” Suddenly, Rolyat’s words sounded as betrayed as he felt, and he wasn’t sure it had been betrayal before. Now, though, he knew that his friend, the one who he left the order alongside for his own reasons, had gone back to a life they left. In Rolyat’s mind, he tried to justify it, but position could and would change a person, and the book and the information must have gone undiscussed or had been lost forever.

  “What about the book we found?” Vaelen asked, leaning back on the bed.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if Mikael told them, or if he was welcomed back first, or if it even matters.” Rolyat said, taking off the final piece of armor, and beginning to wipe himself down.

  Aurelia could sense the betrayal that Rolyat felt. She frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  Rolyat looked up at her and smiled just a moment, before finishing wiping himself down and applying an aromatic oil to cut down on future stink. He didn’t bother saying anything else on the matter.

  Keneya did, though. “What about the Silver Sort?” He asked, finally sliding the karambit in its sheath, and sliding the sheath beneath his pillow. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I’ve already taken care of that.” Rolyat said, leaning back on his bed, tearing a bite of dried beef away and chewing on it. “I sent a Jackdaw to Mikael’s father, to see what he advises us to do. I’m hoping we’ll hear back from him by tomorrow afternoon, but I’m not aware of his condition. In the meantime, I suggest we get some rest and relaxation and rejuvenate ourselve
s from a day of waiting and determine what we will do one way or the other.” Rolyat took a bite and chewed another bit of dried beef. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t excuse the sudden change. In his heart, he was certain that Mikael would not suddenly return to his vows. Mikael, like Rolyat, had fundamentally changed years ago, and though they had their differing of opinions, they shared many of the same sentiments about the direction of their faith and the hierarchy of the Exemplar Orders. As he reclined back on the bed, the only one still awake while his friends dozed, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. As he closed his eyes, he offered up a simple prayer of understanding and patience, and his mind was rewarded with sleep.

  Before the sun crested the horizon, Miliria was awake, standing on her balcony in full Brenness regalia. She propped her elbow on one hand and stroked her cheek with the other hand. Behind her came Jorvig, who stepped up beside her. “Are you sure this will work?” He asked plainly, looking down at her, then back out across the beautiful city of Drachenara.

  She didn’t even look to him to answer. “It will work, I assure you. Leave now for Stormvale and return when I send for you.”

  Jorvig didn’t seem to question her, he turned on a heel and left the balcony, bound eventually for Stormvale. In the back of his mind, he questioned what he was doing; what he had done. As his steps mindlessly droned toward the carriage that would take him and a caravan of men to Stormvale, he remembered killing his parents, the thought of them dying aching for the first time. He thought about what he had done to his own sister. But if she had just agreed it would have hurt nothing. Selfish, he thought.

  He looked at his boots as he stepped into the caravan and reached down to touch his chest where Miliria had left her mark. “Have I done the right thing?” His spoken words made his chest burn with a fury. He hissed and touched the place again, as if guided back to his senses, whispering “Power.”

  Miliria watched Jorvig’s caravan ride away, and she left her balcony, making her way downstairs. She waved her hand at one of the guards, “You. Find Denevim and bring him to me. If he slumbers, wake him. I demand his presence immediately.”

  Moments later Denevim arrived. He was a ghastly apparition compared to what he once was. He once could have passed as the child of a Bren, royal and regal, but built like a warrior. Now only his build remained of what he once was. One of his eyes was completely white, and his skin as pale and cold as a dead man's. His other eye, which did not bear a scar, was milky and fogged, belying the spiritless man he was. As he approached his sister, already fully garbed in his combat apparel, he took a knee. “Yes, Sister?”

  “Your lady.” She said.

  “My lady.” He repeated.

  “Today the King’s Army will march into Drachenara and will attempt to conscript our people as they have in Giltshore. Whomever passes through the city gates bearing the King’s sigil, slay them where they stand. But give them time to accost the people, first. I want you to ‘come to the people’s defense’. You will be their hero. Their savior.” She said, smiling.

  “How do we know that they will not turn away?” Denevim asked, now risen, eyes contacting his sisters.

  “I have assurances from the Burning One. He showed me how my plans will come to fruition.” Miliria answered, calmer than she had ever been to her brother.

  “So shall it be, my lady.” And so, Denevim left his sister’s company and began collecting the guard, those who were replaced after their little insurrection. Leading at least twenty royal guards and a slew of soldiers from Drachenara’s own army, Denevim filtered the men into the city streets, where they would wait.

  As the dawn sun crested the city walls, bringing warmth to the cobblestone, and breaking up the fog, the people began populating the streets. Whether they were opening their stores, or their stalls full of trading wares, or perhaps they were just carrying about day to day activities. The vague scent of fresh baked bread was already in the air, as the bakers began before the sun ever appeared, but shortly thereafter came the scents of cakes and cookies, and the smoke of cured meats.

  Children played in the streets, kicking a leather ball back and forth, or just chasing each other from one place to the next, laughing. It was almost too perfect to cease, yet it had to.

  By the time the sun reached the ten’o’clock height, the sound of marching could be heard just beyond the protective walls of Drachenara. Why Miliria didn’t just close the doors, many soldiers wondered, but they understood the necessity. They were protectors – saviors of the realm. The King’s Army passed through the walls, about fifty of them.

  The one in the front was a Lieutenant, bearing full marks and a shield. “Citizens of Drachenara, Brendom of the Nine, under the protection of King Tivanis, hear me! I bear, in the King’s name, a Rite of Conscription. In times of need, the King is able to call upon the citizens to take up weapons and fight! Fight for the protection of the realm!”

  Immediately one man shouted “Go home, tin cans! We don’t need the King here; we have the Drache’s to protect us!”

  The Lieutenant couldn’t believe what he heard. “Silence! By this rite, I am here to collect all men and women of age and able body to fight!”

  A woman shouted, “And what are we fightin’? Yer buildin’ an army to fight us, ain’t ye? Get out!”

  Another “Get out!” Rang out.

  Finally, a person threw a rock, clanging against the Lieutenants head, causing him to draw his sword. He shouted “Now—now, get back!” He said backing away from the encroaching mob of citizens.

  “You get out!” A young man rushed the Army Lieutenant with a stein full of mead and began to toss it. Before he even could one of the Army’s archers loosed an arrow that struck the young man right in the heart. Not a further step came, and the man collapsed dead at the Lieutenant’s feet.

  The mob writhed in anger, “Kill ‘em!” they shouted.

  As clubs and all forms of weapons came out, the King’s soldiers began cutting down civilians, armed and not, trying to fight their way backward. But now they were surrounded. One by one, soldiers dropped – though the citizens died by the twos and threes. Once Denevim felt that enough blood had been shed, he and his force of soldiers rushed out. Denevim concealed his face with a helmet now, normal folk wouldn’t understand and would fear him. Pushing through the crowd, shield-bearing soldiers began defending the citizens of Drachenara, and killing soldiers left and right.

  From high on Miliria’s balcony, she could hear the screams of the soldiers dying, and it strengthened her resolve. Each time a drop of blood soaked into the soil between the laid cobblestone at the city gates, she could feel her hold on the people growing even more intense. She clenched the banister, knuckles turning white. “Yes.” She muttered under her breath. “Yes!” She cried out in ecstasy.

  One of the King’s soldiers managed to squeeze out the back, spattered in blood, and mounted a nearby horse, riding it away as fast as he could.

  Left behind him, alone, now stood the Lieutenant. He too, was covered in blood, surrounded not only by dead civilians in the front – but his own dead soldiers in the back, and more of the Denevim’s men piled amongst the citizens. He stood in a puddle of blood, innocent or guilty, it didn’t matter there, mixed together. His shield had been damaged beyond use, and he breathed so heavily, it looked like he might collapse. He didn’t speak.

  Denevim stepped up to him, close enough to be within range of his blade.

  The Lieutenant lashed out at him, and Denevim dodged, allowing the blade to only barely glance off the helmet he wore. When he straightened back up, he shook his head and whispered, “I was going to offer you a fair fight.” Then he suddenly lunged at the man and drove the blade of his sword into his gut, all the way to the hilt, and in a final moment of assuring defeat, twisted the blade.

  As the Lieutenant fell dead to the ground, one of Drachenara’s soldiers rushed up to Denevim. “Sir, one of the soldiers escaped. Do you want us to pursue?”

  De
nevim cleaned his blade of the blood and shook his head beneath its armored covering. “No. Let him tell the King what we’ve done. This is our land. Not his.” The soldier was satisfied with that response and walked away. Denevim turned to the people who still stood there, “We will sort this out. If you had loved ones who fell in this atrocity, I am sorry. They will not only be avenged by this great nation, but they will be provided a proper burial at the expense of Drachenara.” He looked to all the dead men and women on the ground, motionless in their puddle of filth and blood. Weak, he thought as looked down upon them, weak and pathetic.

  Miliria stirred about her perch. The screams satiated her deep desire for chaos, and she knew that their deaths would bring her a page closer to the future she craved – the future she was promised. Once the screams stopped, she turned on a heel and made way for the Main Hall, where she sat and waited, patiently, for word to return to her.

  It was deep into the afternoon before the Jackdaw returned from Quardanis, where Daja was healing up. Smart birds they were, the Jackdaw found Rolyat, who at the time was standing in a small garden terrace tended by the owner of the tavern. The ebony wings of the bird flapped against the wind, audibly landing before tapping on the post he landed on. Rolyat smiled and reached out to the bird, removing the wound letter on the bird’s leg. He gently stroked the neck of the bird, to which the bird rubbed back, and with a squawking chirp, flitted away.

  Rolyat unrolled the letter and read it as he stood. He straightened, rolled the letter up with a smile, and made his way confidently back to his comrades who were waiting inside. Once back inside the tavern, he sat down at their table and leaned forward. “News.” He said, leaning on the table, now. “Daja responds, and he is well. He said business will continue. He would like us to go speak with the King. It seems that the King has enacted the Rite of Conscription and has been doing exactly that. He likely needs a band of trustworthy sellswords. He knows Daja from the war, and he knew your father, Vaelen.” He said with a smile.